


just hit my heart straight outta the ball park

by seeingrightly



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 11:29:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2466599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeingrightly/pseuds/seeingrightly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey remembers Ian, vibrating as he pressed his back against the links of the fence, pressing his lips together, trying not to look too excited to see Mickey, trying not to feel too excited to touch Mickey. Mickey remembers feeling sore all over for days afterwards from the tension in his muscles that night, trying to keep himself from reaching out and touching, tasting, doing all the shit he told himself he didn’t want. </p><p>It’s not like that now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just hit my heart straight outta the ball park

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [yesterday's spoiler](http://t.co/kH7PKphCZC). i don't think there are direct allusions to any other s5 spoilers.
> 
> title from ["the moment" by talkfine](http://talkfine.bandcamp.com/track/the-moment), which i've been dying to use for this ship.

Mickey wakes up and Ian’s not in bed.

It felt like Ian was never in bed or always in bed, for a while, but things are better lately, now that Ian’s on medication, now that he’s balancing out. But he’s not in bed even though it’s early, and Mickey gets the fuck up and get dressed and goes to look for Ian, because that’s what he does now. Svetlana has the kid and Mickey doesn’t have to meet up with his brothers and cousins to talk about the deal they’ve got going down next weekend for a couple of hours.

He checks the date, like does every morning now. Mostly the only dates he ever used to keep track of were homecomings.

He always knew when a brother or cousin was due to come home from juvie, and he definitely knew when Terry would be getting out of the slammer. There were parties to plan, and collections to make, and patterns to change. There was a new countdown to start, ‘til the next time Terry got caught.

Life was different, depending if Terry was home or if he wasn’t. It meant Mickey walked or talked a certain way, looked at people a certain way, fuck, it meant Mickey slept a certain way. With Terry gone, with more of his brothers and cousins gone, he only had to do that shit some of the time. The more people were home, the more Mickey was wound up, tense and ready to spring into a certain way of being, in case anyone opened his door without knocking to take a piss, or showed up on the roof of the building he happened to have broken into, or used certain words that didn’t make Mickey flinch because he couldn’t afford them to.

Those are the only dates Mickey’d ever kept track of, because they were the only ones he had to. Fuck if he knows what day he got married or what day his kid was born. He’s not actually sure of his own birthday, because it’s not like his family’s ever thrown a fuckin’ birthday party for someone other than Terry, and the last time his mom was around to mention it he was too young or too stupid to read a fuckin’ calendar.

Now, though, he keeps track of the days. He keeps track of Ian’s medication and Ian’s therapy sessions and when he’s supposed to watch the baby. It makes him itch, sometimes, makes him feel like someone’s got a leash around his neck and pulled it too tight. But he does it. And he looks at the date, this date, and he knows it. It wasn’t a homecoming, but he knows it, and he knows where Ian’ll be.

He pulls on a sweater and he lights a cigarette and he heads out the front door, walking slowly. The sun’s shining through the trees and onto the grass and Mickey tosses his cigarette out onto the field and lights another one as he nears the dugout. Ian’s sitting inside, wearing just a button-up over his t-shirt, leaning against the chain-link fence and facing inward toward the bench instead of out across the field.

“Yo,” Mickey says around the cigarette.

Ian looks over at him, quiet. Mickey leans next to him and when Ian reaches out he hands him the cigarette.

“You ain’t cold?” Mickey asks, and Ian shrugs.

Mickey lets him be quiet for a bit, leans back against the fence and pushes their arms together, lights up a third cigarette.

“So, two years, huh?” Mickey says eventually.

Ian turns and blinks at him.

“Two years what?” he asks.

Mickey takes a drag, doesn’t look at Ian.

“Since I went to juvie,” he says. “The second time.”

Ian kinda stares at him.

“Mickey, you don’t even remember your birthday,” he says. “Why do you remember that?”

“I think it’s pretty fuckin’ memorable,” Mickey says. “Frank walked in on us with my legs over your stupid head.”

I let you look right at me while you fucked me, he doesn’t say. I almost killed someone for you, he doesn’t say. I let someone who knew about me live because of you, he doesn’t say.

Ian stands up, turns so that he’s still leaning one shoulder against the fence, but crowds into Mickey’s space, a funny look on his face.

“Okay,” he says. “So why’d you come look for me here?”

“Why’d you come here?” Mickey asks, doesn’t look at him, hands him the cigarette.

“’Cause that day fucked it up,” Ian says.

“Fucked what up?”

“Everything,” Ian says. “That summer. When it started to feel real.”

Mickey rubs a hand over his mouth.

“You know that this was our first date,” Ian says, matter-of-factly.

Mickey remembers Ian, vibrating as he pressed his back against the links of the fence, pressing his lips together, trying not to look too excited to see Mickey, trying not to feel too excited to touch Mickey. Mickey remembers feeling sore all over for days afterwards from the tension in his muscles that night, trying to keep himself from reaching out and touching, tasting, doing all the shit he told himself he didn’t want.

It’s not like that now. Ian’s loose, relaxed, but solid where his arm is against Mickey’s, and Mickey feels fine, feels good, feels like he can do whatever he wants. He feels real.

“Yo, you know if you wanted to bring a fuckin’ blanket out here and look at the stars or some shit I’d do it?” he says, tossing the stub of the cigarette to the ground.

Ian lets out a startled little laugh, kind of leans closer to him like maybe he misheard. Mickey takes a breath and looks up at him.

“I mean it,” he says. “I’d fuckin’ do it if you said you wanted to.”

Ian tilts his head, the corners of his mouth curling up. He leans a little closer.

“How’d you know I’d be here?” he asked.

Mickey squints over at Ian, kinda throws his hands out in front of him, because it’s obvious.

“’Cause I fucked this all up,” he says. “You just said.”

“I didn’t say _you_ fucked it up,” Ian says, frowning, shaking his head. “I was pissed off at you about a lot of stuff back when it happened, but you know I get it now, right?”

“You get it,” Mickey repeats, staring up at Ian.

“Yeah,” Ian says, still frowning. “I know that you could never do what you wanted to do. I know that most of the time the shit you said as a joke was the shit you wanted.”

Mickey shifts, uncomfortable.

“Like what,” he huffs.

Ian raises his eyebrows, juts his chin out a little the way he does when he thinks Mickey’s being difficult.

“Hm,” he says, his tone going sarcastic. “I remember this one time you brought beer and joints to the dugout and then pretended it wasn’t a date by accusing me of wanting to go stargazing or some shit.”

Mickey blinks.

“You’re the one calling that a date,” he says.

“Exactly,” Ian laughs. “You knew I’d think of it as a date. You just pretended you didn’t. Took me a while to figure it out though.”

Mickey huffs again, thinks about pulling out another cigarette.

“Oh my god,” Ian says. “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t need to be a secret anymore that two years ago you wanted to date me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey says, elbowing at Ian’s side.

Ian dodges him and laughs, shifting to grab both of his arms and crowd him back against the fence. Mickey glares at Ian’s chest, feeling his muscles tense up, feeling cornered, and he takes a breath. He doesn’t have to feel that way anymore. He can feel whatever he feels now.

“Hey,” Ian says, “you’re the one who keeps talking about stargazing.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey says again, kicking at Ian’s shin.

Ian presses their chests together, presses his nose to Mickey’s hairline.

“Hey,” he says again, quieter this time. “I know you know when my birthday is, asshole.”

Mickey stills. Ian is vibrating against him with that kind of repressed energy he had the last time they were here, waiting for something, wanting something.

“You know my birthday and you know what today is and you know when all my appointments are, asshole,” Ian says, staying close. “And you would take me fucking stargazing if I asked you to.”

He breathes out against Mickey’s forehead, his cold lips brushing against the skin. He’s buzzing, and Mickey feels all coiled up, can’t move.

“Say it,” Mickey says quietly.

“You love me,” Ian says, close against his skin.

Mickey closes his eyes. After a second, he nods, just a little, knocking his head gently against Ian’s nose. Ian waits, waits a moment longer, and then laughs, sighing out a huge breath. He pulls away from Mickey all at once and leans against the fence next to him again, facing the bench, neither of them looking at each other.

After a second, Mickey breathes. He unwinds, slowly, bit by bit, pressing their arms together, pressing their legs together. Ian melts against him, sliding, going slowly, his forehead finding its way to the top of Mickey’s head, his nose finding its way to Mickey’s ear.

“It’s fuckin’ cold out,” Mickey says eventually. “Next time wear a jacket or some shit.”

Ian presses his nose more firmly against the shell of Mickey’s ear, and Mickey flips him off. Laughing, Ian grabs his hand, trapping it between them, and Mickey lets him wind their fingers together, and then Ian’s just staring at him, looking pink with cold and pleased.

“Shut up,” Mickey says, and then he leans in and presses their mouths together, and Ian’s cold nose bumps against his cheek and Ian makes a happy little sound and the fence presses hard against Mickey’s back but he doesn’t care.

He’s wanted to do this here for more than two years.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at [professorwolfjwolf](professorwolfjwolf.tumblr.com).


End file.
